


Getting To Know You

by SailorChibi



Series: Caring For John [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: D/s, Dom!Sherlock, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Sherlock knows everything, Sherlock wants to know everything about John, Spanking, Sub!John, sex in semi-public
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-07
Updated: 2012-09-24
Packaged: 2017-11-13 18:30:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock thinks he finally has the chance to examine John to his heart’s content. When they’re interrupted by Lestrade and pulled into another case, John discovers that Sherlock isn’t always the the epitome of control he makes himself out to be… in a supply room at the Met.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> This is the sequel to [The Man Who Knows](http://archiveofourown.org/works/483460) and [What Comes First](http://archiveofourown.org/works/485358) but it can be read on its own. It contains an established d/s relationship between Sherlock and John.

Sherlock is bored.

It’s been two days since the case ended, two days since putting John down on his knees had given him the additional stimulation he needed to solve the case, and two days spent sleeping and eating, at least on John’s part. Currently he’s sitting in his chair and flipping placidly through one of his medical journals, pointedly ignoring Sherlock’s stare. After his first half a dozen attempts at coaxing Sherlock out of his bad mood and being thoroughly rejected, John gave up. Sometimes the best thing for Sherlock is to let him sulk until he feels ready to join the land of humanity.

He turns the page and lets out a slow, soft sigh, lips barely parting to let the exhalation pass. Surprisingly, there is no accompanying whine about how annoying John is when he makes noise doing things like breathing, and really, this should be John’s first clue. Foolishly, he chooses to believe that the continuing silence means Sherlock has finally given up and gone to sleep. He starts thinking about dinner and what he might be able to convince Sherlock to eat.

The shadow falling over him is a surprise, though not an unwelcome one. He can feel the burn of Sherlock’s penetrating stare accompanying it and this one isn’t so easy to ignore. John sighs. “I guess it was too much to hope that you might’ve gone to sleep,” he says mournfully.

“I’m already bored, John. I have no desire to torture myself further with even more boring activities,” Sherlock says.

“Sleep is good for you.”

“I know something better.”

Spoken in a deep, throaty murmur, John immediately feels himself stiffen in more than one place. Slowly he looks up. Sherlock is standing right in front of him, as expected, wearing pajama bottoms and his red dressing gown. The cloth frames the lightly muscled pane of his chest: a picture worthy to hang in any gallery. It’s certainly not the first time he’s seen Sherlock naked - John has patched up so many injuries that he’s pretty sure he’s seen every inch of Sherlock repeatedly - but it is the first time where there’s a remotely sexual connotation to it. His mouth goes dry and Sherlock smiles, one of those warm twitches of the lips he reserves solely for John. Silently, he holds a hand out to John.

John looks at it, but before he can even begin to contemplate the unspoken question his body is reacting, hand sliding into Sherlock’s. They fit together well, gold on porcelain. Sherlock pulls him up easily, leaving their bodies close together. His quicksilver eyes scan John’s face, deducing everything John is thinking. John feels aroused already just from Sherlock’s presence, from how close they’re standing, and he allows his eyes to flutter shut.

“Safe word?” Sherlock asks.

“Hound,” John whispers, the syllable sliding off his lips in a heated rush that makes his skin prickle. He’ll never forget the moment when Sherlock first asked him for a safe word and John refused to provide one.

Sherlock makes an approving sound and with it comes the first touch, sliding gently along John’s collarbone and beneath the collar of his shirt. His hands are cool and John shivers but stands still, allowing Sherlock his exploration. They haven’t done this, not yet, and John can’t deny that there’s a part of him that has been eagerly waiting for this moment. He keeps his eyes shut as Sherlock’s hand leaves him, only to return with impatient tugs at the bottom of his jumper, wanting it off. 

He raises his hands to help and then drops them back to his sides when the shirt is gone, leaving his chest and shoulders bared to Sherlock’s perusal. Once more, fingers return, this time to the wound on his shoulder, probing curiously for a few seconds before moving on, sliding across John’s chest, deliberately avoiding his nipples, and ending up on the sensitive skin of his navel. The touches are almost clinical and he knows Sherlock is gathering information, filling up the spare gaps in his data banks with knowledge about John. This is what they agreed to: something for Sherlock to focus on when his mind can’t take the strain anymore. A part of John feels deliciously greedy knowing that _he_ is the puzzle Sherlock can’t figure out at first glance.

“John.”

At first he doesn’t even realize Sherlock wants an answer and then he feels a sharp pinch on his right buttock. He gasps, a strangled inhale, and his head lifts, eyes opening at last. “Y-yes?” he stutters.

“Limits,” Sherlock says, returning to his gentle stroking. “What am I not allowed to do?”

In all honesty it takes John a moment to wrap his mind around the question. It surprises him a little that Sherlock is bothering to ask. For a split second the word ‘nothing’ is on the tip of his tongue, but he bites it back because he can see the honesty in Sherlock’s eyes and he knows that this is something Sherlock wants a genuine answer to. He says, “Nothing permanent or visible outside of my clothes without discussing it first. No scat or torture. Nothing that reminds me of… of then.” He can’t quite bring himself to mention Afghanistan by name: that place, those memories, don’t need to be a part of this. “No knife play or anything like that. Nothing in public. I want to keep this just between us. No sharing.”

At that, Sherlock smiles, though his eyes remain bright with lust. “As though I’d share you,” he says. “You are _mine_ , John Watson.”

Just hearing that is enough to make John feel dangerously close and Sherlock hasn’t really done anything yet. “Yes,” he breathes, the affirmation falling from his lips. “Yes, please, Sherlock.”

“Go into my bedroom,” Sherlock instructs. “Take off your trousers but leave your pants on. Lie down on the bed and don’t move.”

The bedroom - no, _Sherlock’s_ bedroom. John feels his face flush as he nods. They haven’t made it in there yet. All of their encounters have taken place out in the living room, which feels more like neutral territory. But the bedroom is different, painfully intimate, and his erection grows as he walks into Sherlock’s room. It’s surprisingly clean considering the state of the rest of the flat. Predictably, the bed looks like it’s never slept in. He follows the simple instructions, taking his trousers off and stretching out on the clean sheets.

Sherlock comes in a minute later. His eyes look oddly silver in the fading light, gleaming like an unnatural creature, and John swallows hard as Sherlock approaches the bed. “I want to know every part of you,” Sherlock murmurs, his voice deep and husky. “Put your hands on the headboard, John, and do not let go.”

John stretches his arms up, sliding them around the thin rungs of the headboard, which give him an easy hold. His heart is pounding in anticipation. Sherlock grabs the front of his dressing gown and slowly slides it off, baring what looks like miles of pale skin to John’s eager gaze. He kneels on the bed, settling between John’s legs which part willingly for him, and for a moment he just observes. John fights against the urge to squirm under the intensity of that gaze. Part of him can’t help wondering what Sherlock is learning from this. Before the night is through he knows he’ll be stripped apart, every inch of him bared to this madman, and he loves it.

The touches start slow. Sherlock wasn’t joking. His fingers trace every inch of John’s body, from face, to ears, down to his neck, across his shoulders and chest, his arms and hands, his belly, ribs - and then Sherlock shifts down to his feet, inspecting toes and heels, ankles and calves, knees, thighs. John is breathing hard and he can’t stop the occasional soft moan from slipping out. He had no idea he was so sensitive in such strange areas. Pressure in a particular spot on his right hip, his neck, especially just beneath his hairline, the back of his left knee, the inside of both wrists: Sherlock seems to be determined to learn how to play John’s body as finely as he does his violin, and at this rate, he’s going to do it.

“Sherlock!” he says breathlessly. “Please.”

“Oh, did you want more?” Sherlock says with wide eyed innocence. “By all means.” And then he leans forward and starts retracing the path his fingers took, only with his _tongue_.

It’s torture. Pure bloody torture. John pants for breath, his arms shaking from the strain he’s putting on them from gripping the headboard so tightly. Sherlock’s tongue is warm and slippery and agile and he pays special attention to those aforementioned erogenous zones, plus a couple more he’s just discovered. He brings his teeth into play a couple of times, nibbling gently at a patch of skin here or there until John is writhing beneath him, biting his lip to hold back the uncontrollable moans that want to spill out. He’s never had this level of attention before from anyone and it’s intoxicating but he doesn’t know how long he can take it.

“You are fascinating, John, did you know that?” Sherlock murmurs against his chest, pressing a kiss against one of his nipples. He gives a low hum of satisfaction at the way that John’s body arches beneath him at the brief contact. “No matter how much I learn about you, there are still things that I don’t know. How do you do it?”

In spite of how calm and controlled he sounds, Sherlock looks anything but. His bright eyes are lit with a familiar gleam and his curls are falling haphazardly over his face. He’s still dressed in pajama bottoms and he seems to be in no particular hurry to take them off. John’s hands itch to be able to touch him. He wants to strip Sherlock bare and stroke that pale skin, wants to see Sherlock undone to the point where he pins John down and just fucks him as ruthlessly as possible. John grinds his teeth together and his hands shake with the effort it takes to keep from doing just that. Sherlock glances at his hands but says nothing.

Instead, he reaches down and hooks his thumbs into the waistband of John’s boxers. It’s the one area on the front of John’s body that he hasn’t touched yet. He pulls them down slowly, sending John’s cock bobbing into the air as the material slides over it. John whimpers deep in his throat and his hips thrust uselessly against the air. Sherlock tosses the boxers somewhere over his shoulder and takes a moment to look, taking in the whole glorious package. Fuck but John is never sexier than when he’s begging for Sherlock to touch him. Sherlock knows that he has found the one thing he’ll never get bored of.

“Turn over,” he says hoarsely.

It takes John a second or two to realize that he’s been issued a command. Warm hands on his hips help him to flip over so that he’s lying on his front. His cock is trapped between his belly and the sheets and he moans, unable to stop himself from rutting gently against the bed. He forgets about Sherlock until he hears the sharp whoosh of air followed by a solid blow against his bottom, right across the seat of his arse. He yelps and scrabbles, hands clenching against the headboard. It hurts for a split second, the pain a dark throb, but it quickly subsides into  
pleasant, heated warmth that makes him squirm.

“Behave, John,” Sherlock murmurs above him. “I will punish you if you can’t.”

Christ. John’s not sure if that’s incentive to behave or not. He shivers as he feels one of Sherlock’s legs sliding over him. Sherlock straddles him, arse resting on John’s spine, the damp fabric of his bottoms grinding tantalizingly into John’s back. He leans forward and wraps his hands around John’s, leaving them both holding onto the headboard. Having Sherlock’s solid weight pressed along his body feels better than anything else. John can actually feel himself relaxing, the tension running out of his body like Sherlock pressed a button. 

“Sherlock,” he murmurs, his voice muffled by the pillow that his face is cushioned against. 

“John,” Sherlock rumbles, placing a gentle kiss on the back of John’s neck. He slides his hands down John’s arms, delighting in the way John shivers, and opens his mouth, pressing it to the back of the bullet wound that brought John to him. He tongues the scar, learning it by taste and feel, paying no attention to the way that John is fighting to stay still beneath him.

The sound of the door opening and voices speaking doesn’t really register with either of them at first. 

“Sherlock!”

That does. John goes stiff and Sherlock’s head snaps up. 

“Jesus,” John breathes, recognizing Lestrade’s voice when the man calls out a second time. He feels disoriented, caught between two worlds: reality and the place where he belongs to Sherlock. His head spins with the effort of being forcibly returned to one when he longs to get caught up in the other.

Sherlock swears under his breath and leaps off of John. In the span of a minute he has exchanged pajamas for a pair of trousers and a shirt. He sweeps out of the room before Lestrade can call for a third time - or worse, come searching for them. John suddenly feels cold without Sherlock’s warm, reassuring weight covering his body. He also begins to feel a little silly. He sighs and unlatches his hands, wincing as his fingers crack in protest, and pushes himself into a sitting position. His cock has gone limp between his thighs, leaving him feeling unsatisfied. Nothing dampens excitement like having someone else walk in, apparently. 

He finds his boxers and trousers on the floor and pulls them on. His body is littered with bite marks. Some of them ache when he moves but he finds that he likes the sting. He doesn’t have a shirt and there’s no way Sherlock’s clothing will fit so he stays in the room, listening to the sound of Lestrade and Sherlock speaking too quietly for him to hear. Finally he hears the door opening and closing, indicating that Lestrade has left, and he ventures out into the flat. Sherlock is standing by the window holding his violin bow, a look of frustration on his face. He turns around when John walks into the room.

“New case?” John says, attempting (and, he suspects, failing) to act casual.

“Yes,” Sherlock says and for once he doesn’t look happy about that. In a handful of steps he’s standing in front of John. Before John can stiffen or go tense, Sherlock wraps his arms around him and pulls him in close. He says slowly and deliberately, “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to go to the scene and solve the case for those idiots. Then we’re going to come back here and I’m going to continue my examination until you’re begging me to fuck you, and then when you can’t take it anymore and I’ve pushed you past your limits I’m going to fuck you until you pass out.” Each word is accompanied by a hot gust of breath over John’s ear. “Are you amenable to that, John?”

Just the suggestion of what Sherlock is detailing makes John’s knees go weak, and he’s absurdly glad that Sherlock is holding him up. “Yes,” he rasps, unable to put into words how very much he wants Sherlock to do exactly that. 

“Good.” Sherlock tips his head up and kisses him, a harsh, demanding kiss. John gives as good as he gets, obediently parting his lips and meeting Sherlock’s tongue stroke for stroke, and by the time Sherlock finally lets him go he’s feeling lightheaded and every bit as aroused as he was before Lestrade walked in. Judging by the satisfied smirk on Sherlock’s face as he grabs John’s shirt and tosses it to him, he knows it and delights in it.

This case is going to be interesting.


	2. Chapter 2

The crime scene is in a part of the city that John isn't familiar with. It's briskly cold outside and he shivers, rubbing at his arms in an effort to warm himself. Already he can feel his shoulder sending up a little warning flare. Nothing makes it ache more than the damp air. Sherlock, if he notices, pays no attention as he leaps out of the cab and strides onto the crime scene like he owns the place. Sally Donovan sends him a disgusted look as he passes but for once she seems to think that it's easier to remain silent than to get into a fight which she never wins. She does send a tight nod towards John, who returns it with a polite, if distant, smile. 

"John!" Sherlock shouts over his shoulder.

"Yeah, I'm coming," John says, rolling his eyes. Anyone who didn't know better would swear that he strays from Sherlock's side on a regular basis. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his jacket and ambles a little closer, coming to a stop beside Lestrade, who is watching Sherlock with the expression of a doomed man who has seen salvation that comes with a price he can't afford. Sherlock, of course, is sweeping around the body with his magnifying glass in hand.

"Thanks for coming, John," Lestrade says, sounding a little apologetic. "I know it hasn't been all that long since the last one."

"No problem," John replies and he does his best to mean it. "You know how he gets when he doesn't have a case around. It's just as well that he didn't really have time to crash."

Lestrade nods and rocks back and forth on the balls of his heels. The silence between him and John is not awkward, just comfortable. After a couple of minutes, he asks, "What do you have, Sherlock?"

"Far more than you do," Sherlock says without missing a beat, crouching down. He lifts the brightly coloured fringe and sweeps a gloved finger across the victim's forehead. Whatever residue he finds makes him frown. "Tell me, has Anderson destroyed any other evidence besides the footprints?"

"I was doing my job!" Anderson protests.

"Sherlock," Lestrade sighs at the same time. His voice has that edge of controlled patience, the one that means he’s trying hard to not lose his temper. "No one has touched the scene except for you."

Sherlock nods and laces his hands together for a moment. His eyes have that _look_ , the one that says he's struggling to put the pieces of this puzzle together. It's a disconcertingly familiar look, one that John last saw while Sherlock was slowly pulling his boxers down his legs, and he shifts uncomfortably, feeling the swell of arousal low in his belly. Sherlock twists to look at them at that precise moment and John meets his eyes for a split second before he looks away. Long practice keeps a flush from rising in his face and he clenches in hands into loose fists, hidden safely in his pockets, to compensate. 

“As always, you have proven that my contempt for you is justified,” Sherlock says, keeping his gaze on John for a breathless moment longer before he glances at Lestrade. “Who found the body?”

“Some teens out for a smoke,” says Lestrade, checking his little book. “But you - hey!” He looks at Sherlock’s retreating back with exasperation, watching as the detective strides towards the police cars. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the two girls talking to one of the officers were the ones who discovered the body and Sherlock is zeroing in on them. John catches up to Lestrade in a couple of steps and they both hurry to follow, anxious to keep Sherlock from insulting anyone too much.

Upon a closer look, teen isn’t really the word. Both girls are easily in their early twenties. Sherlock stares at them for a half second and then he says, “When you found her what was she holding?”

“I didn’t look at her hands,” one of them says, shuddering. “I couldn’t look away from her eyes. It was horrible. She wouldn’t stop staring at us.” She sounds so shaken that John gives her a second look, carefully checking for signs of shock. She’s stiff, tense, her arms locked protectively around her belly, but her colour is good and she doesn’t seem to be breathing fast. He glances away and realizes that Sherlock is watching him with a look John can’t place, apparently ignoring what the woman is saying.

“And you?” he says to the other woman without taking his eyes off of John.

“She wasn’t holding anything,” the woman says and finally Sherlock glances at her.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” he says with a faint, challenging smirk. “She was holding something and when you found the body and your friend ran to get help you couldn’t resist the opportunity to pick it up. I’m sure you know that stealing evidence from a crime scene is against the law but you didn’t expect to get caught, not when you repositioned her hand to make it look like she wasn’t holding anything. And if I wasn’t here you likely would have gotten away with it but I am and I’ll have it.” He holds a hand out.

The woman’s face turns pink and she stares at Sherlock for several seconds. John can practically see the options leaping through her mind: should she run? Punch Sherlock for the insult? Keep protesting her innocence? He edges a bit closer just in case she takes the second option. He’s not above taking down a woman if it means keeping Sherlock safe. Her eyes flick towards him and she scowls, apparently realizing that this is not going to go the way she wants. She reaches into her purse and pulls out an iPhone that even John can tell has likely just been taken out of the box. Reluctantly she hands it over.

“She’s not going to use it anymore. I don’t see what difference it makes,” she says sulkily.

“You wouldn’t,” Sherlock mutters as he switches the phone on. The screen wakes up with a familiar chirp and his fingers begin flying as he manipulates the touch screen. John watches with a hint of admiration. He’s still hopeless with his own phone, never mind one that he’s never held before, but Sherlock handles it every bit as knowledgably as he does his phone or John’s.

“That’s evidence, you know,” Lestrade says. He looks like he doesn’t know whether to take it away or let Sherlock do his thing. 

“Yes, Lestrade, we’ve just covered that, very good.” Sherlock turns and starts walking away. John shrugs an apology at Lestrade and jogs lightly to catch up. 

“Where are we going?” he asks. “You do know that you’re a complete hypocrite now, by the way.”

“What?” Sherlock looks up distractedly.

“You told her that taking evidence from crime scenes is against the law and now you’ve gone and done the same thing.”

Sherlock smirks. “Yes but the difference is I actually know what to do with it.” He presents the screen to John with a flourish. John looks at it curiously. It’s showing the list of people that someone, presumably the victim, last spoke to. There’s only one name on the list. It is quite possibly the shortest suspect list John has ever seen.

“So I guess we’re going to go talk to this bloke?” 

“Yes, that’s the plan.” Sherlock glances around as he tucks the iPhone into his pocket. John follows his gaze, wondering what he’s looking for. He’s not prepared for Sherlock to grip him by the arms and physically haul him into the nearest alley, out of sight of anyone who might be passing by or looking for them. John stumbles, his foot knocking against something he doesn’t really want to identify, and then gasps as Sherlock presses him roughly up against the wall of a building. A warm, lean body presses possessively against him, pinning him there.

“Um…” John says intelligently. His arousal had faded earlier but the feel of Sherlock’s body against his is enough to bring it roaring back. He squirms. The stones are cold against his back in comparison to the heat radiating off of Sherlock. It’s a strange contrast that only serves to excite him even more. “Sherlock, what are you doing?”

“Do you know,” Sherlock asks, “how distracting you are, John?”

“And here I thought you would never let anything distract you from The Work,” says John. He means to say it teasingly but it comes out as more of a moan when long fingers sneak down and grasp the front of trousers. 

“You’re a part of my work so it doesn’t really count.” By hunching his shoulders, Sherlock is at just the right angle to attach his mouth to John’s throat. He parts his lips and begins to suck hard, scraping his teeth gently across the delicate skin. John gasps roughly and writhes against him in an effort to get more friction but he’s pinned, completely at Sherlock’s mercy, and oh god there is no where else he’d rather be. This is what he used to dream about, all of it, what he used to wish that his past lovers would have the interest to do, and the fact that it’s Sherlock just makes it all so much better. His eyes flutter shut as the pressure against his neck increases.

“S-Sherlock…” he stutters out. It feels like his mind has temporarily gone on vacation and it’s a struggle to make the words come out properly. He can feel Sherlock’s mouth moving against his throat when he speaks and his legs feel weak. “Lestrade could… he could…”

“Let him.” Sherlock sucks harder, determinedly nibbling and licking, and John falls silent against him except for the occasional whine or moan that he can’t keep quiet. He tries again to thrust against the light pressure of Sherlock’s fingers but he can’t and it’s utterly delicious. He flexes his fingers into Sherlock’s coat and holds on.

At last, several minutes of pure pleasure later, Sherlock steps back, his hand sliding away from John’s cock after one last, lingering touch. He studies John and then smiles, a slow, seductive smile that makes John feel like water. His legs nearly buckle when Sherlock takes a second step back and he just barely avoids a spill to the ground. He’s hot and dazed, his neck burning with a painfully pleasurably mix that has every nerve thrumming for more. He meets Sherlock’s silvery gaze and the desire in them is blatantly obvious; he knows at that moment that Sherlock wants nothing more than to bend him over the nearest available surface and fuck him raw. And he wants that too, so much that it takes concentrated effort to not beg for it, and then he thinks, oh what the hell.

“I want…” he starts.

“I know what you want but we have to go,” Sherlock says, looking genuinely regretful. “The man we’re going to question has tickets to leave the country at half past five.”

The news serves to shock John out of his haze. He checks his phone instinctively and then stares at Sherlock. “It’s almost five now.”

“Yes, that’s why I said we have to go.” Sherlock is using his ‘why do you bother to question anything I have to say’ voice. He moves a step closer to John and puts a hand at the base of John’s back, pressing him forward. John allows himself to be moved and walks out onto the street. The people passing by don’t give either of them a second glance as Sherlock throws his free hand up and summons a cab. Like magic one pulls up immediately and they get in. Sherlock barks off a set of directions and they’re on their way.

It takes John a little while to notice that the cabbie is darting looks at him in the mirror. She’s smiling and he doesn’t understand why until he happens to glance into his phone, which conveniently serves as a reflective surface. There on his neck, high enough above the collar of his jumper that it’s clearly visible, is a fresh bruise. The skin around it is a soft throbbing red and the black and violet marks look lurid and sinful against the pale flesh of his throat. Immediately his cheeks flush and he whips his head up to glare at Sherlock.

“You did that on purpose,” he hisses, covering the mark with the palm of his hand. It stings when he touches it, a vivid reminder of how exactly it got there, and his cock throbs in response. Sherlock’s eyes flick briefly down and he smirks. That’s all the answer John needs. He huffs and starts to turn away but Sherlock catches his shoulder, pulling him back around and leaning forward, so close their lips almost brush.

“Do you not like having my mark on you?” he breathes. “And here I thought you would enjoy having visible proof that you _belong to me_.”

A dizzying rush floods through John and it takes him a second to work through what sounds a little off about that. “Wait,” he says, suddenly remembering the look on Sherlock’s face when John was looking at that woman. Now that he understands it he can recognize it for what it was: jealousy. He can’t keep the amusement from his face or his voice. “Sherlock, you do know I was trying to see if that woman was in shock, right? I wasn’t interested in her. She was too young for me, for one thing.” And for another thing, John has everything he could ever possibly want sitting right in front of him. 

It’s brief but there, a flicker in Sherlock’s eyes, and John exhales, leaning forward to press their mouths together into a gentle kiss. He licks Sherlock’s bottom lip before pulling away and smiling. “You’re such a possessive git,” he says, entirely too fond for it to be the scolding he’d intended it to be. He supposes he should be angry - he’d requested that Sherlock not do anything visible outside of his clothing without discussion beforehand, after all - but he’s really not. It never ceases to amaze him how endearing Sherlock can be without even trying.

“Yes, but now everyone knows,” Sherlock says, and he looks and sounds so pleased about that fact that John can’t do anything but shake his head and grin.


	3. Chapter 3

They catch the lover just as he’s trying to board the plane. It results in a rather messy brawl in the middle of the airport, as the lover turns out to be a muscular man who has several inches on Sherlock, meaning John finds himself at a disadvantage. Security comes running and the lover ends up pinned to the floor just as Lestrade walks onto the scene. He takes one look at Sherlock – who has been cuffed by security – and at John – who is now rubbing at his shoulder with a pained expression – and the heap of men on the floor and pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers, no doubt wishing that he was anywhere except where he is.

“I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade. Please unhand that man and release that one into our custody,” he says wearily. 

“This man started a fight,” the one holding onto Sherlock says.

“Yes, I was trying to keep a murderer from getting onto one of your planes and escaping the country,” says Sherlock, looking rather like a cat that has been tossed into water. His curls are mussed and he’s standing stiffly, putting as much distance between him and the security man as possible. 

“Yes, yes, he’s... well, he works with me. Sometimes. Look, just let him go, alright, and we’ll sort this out.” Lestrade sends Sherlock a _look_ that Sherlock, with years of practice, pointedly ignores. “Don’t even think of leaving, Sherlock. You’re coming back with us to sort out the mountains of paperwork that will result from this and if you pull one of your disappearing acts I swear I don’t care how much my success rate plummets, I won’t call on you for three months.”

Sherlock just sniffs and saunters over to John. “Alright?”

“I’ve been better.” His shoulder was wrenched while he was trying to prevent the bloke from making a run for it and now his collarbone aches with a deeply resentful throb that he can feel all the way down his back. It doesn’t help that he can feel his muscles stiffening up no matter how much he tries to relax. He jumps when Sherlock places a hand on his shoulder and turns to eye him suspiciously, but Sherlock just looks back at him before beginning a slow, gentle massage, his clever fingers finding the perfect way to urge the muscles to loosen up. And, oh, it actually feels nice. He leans against Sherlock, letting the solid weight hold him up.

Lestrade shoots them a baffled look when he catches sight of them and Sherlock responds with a dark look, half-turning John so that they’re not quite as visible. He keeps up the light pressure, the pads of his fingertips finding and kneading the knots so firmly that John actually purrs, his head falling limply against Sherlock’s shoulder as he closes his eyes and gives himself over to the comforting sensation. The mark on his neck is clearly visible, he can tell by the way that Sherlock’s thumb brushes against it on every full sweep of his hand, and although he can’t see it he knows that Sherlock is smirking, the git.

It takes the better part of an hour before they’re on their way back to NSY. At Lestrade’s insistence, he’s in the cab with them, having allowed Donovan to drive his car back. He clearly doesn’t trust Sherlock to show up without being escorted like a two-year-old. Sherlock is scowling and John feels like a man trapped in a very bad position between two men who are stubborn as hell. He looks out the window and tries not to sigh. He’s tired and wrung out and this is so not how he imagined his day would go. He could, technically, go home and Lestrade probably wouldn’t mind in lieu of his shoulder but he’d never hear the end of it. So when they get to there he reluctantly gets out and follows Sherlock inside, leaving Lestrade to pay the cabbie.

“Sit,” Lestrade says firmly, pointing to the two chairs in front of his desk. He starts getting his paperwork together.

“This could just as easily be done tomorrow,” Sherlock says. “John was hurt during the fight.”

“Sherlock,” John mutters. If he’s not going to use himself as an excuse he’s definitely not going to let Sherlock do it.

“Since he didn’t get checked over by the paramedics I have to assume it wasn’t that terrible,” says Lestrade. “John, I’m sorry, but you know what he’s like.”

Because John does know he nods, and then he’s treated to an accusatory glare from Sherlock. But he can’t help it. He’s usually the one who has to drag Sherlock’s arse back down here to give a statement after Lestrade begs and/or threatens him enough. Every time it’s a fight. Sherlock hates ‘wasting time’, as he so eloquently puts it, and he considers this one of the biggest wastes of all. It’s easier to get it over with and then they can go home and Sherlock can _fuck him already_. He flushes slightly and clears his throat and suddenly Sherlock is looking at him, interest renewed, and shit, John’s pretty sure that while Sherlock isn’t a mind reader he heard that.

“Lestrade, you should probably know that Sally is about to come in here.” Sherlock leans back in his chair and folds his arms. “And, hmm, I do believe she’s been spending the night with Anderson again. _Look_ at the state of her clothing, absolutely appalling.”

Lestrade looks aggrieved but he moves out of the room to head Sally off, no doubt thinking that the crowning glory to an already awful night would be breaking up a fight between her and Sherlock. The second he’s gone, Sherlock jumps to his feet and grips John’s wrist, pulling him up too. John has just enough time to stutter a protest that may or may not be Sherlock’s name before he’s being hauled out of the room and around the corner. Sherlock doesn’t stop there, either; he seems to have a specific destination in mind, likely one that won’t end with him getting caught by Lestrade, and John’s fully expecting them to leave through some hidden exit when Sherlock stops abruptly, pushes open the door of a supply closet, and swings them both inside.

“Err,” says John, putting his hands out. It doesn’t help. His foot gets caught on something and he stumbles against the wall, swearing softly as his palms impact against the harsh surface and his shoulder gives a throb. “Sherlock, _what_ are you doing? Why are we standing in a closet? You can’t avoid Lestrade forever, you know.”

“If avoidance was my goal we would’ve left entirely while he was distracted,” Sherlock replies, and there’s a shuffling sound and then he’s breathing hotly and damply on the back of John’s neck. John jumps, not having realized that Sherlock was so close, and gives a strangled gasp when long fingers slide over his hips and pull him back against an equally long body. He can feel Sherlock’s cock nudging against his arse, hard and wanting, and moans softly.

"Sherlock," he says, unable to deny that there's a frisson of excitement curling low in his belly. It never ceases to amaze him, how Sherlock can see through the thin barriers of propriety that John tries so hard to live by, that he can just know, somehow, what it is that John wants before John himself has the luxury of figuring it out. He squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath. As much as he wants to lean into Sherlock and let the man do whatever he likes he can't quite forget about where they are. "Sherlock, Lestrade will come looking when he notices that you're gone. I really don't want to be caught in a closet with you. As much as I appreciate your enthusiasm, this can wait until - mmph!" The rest of his well planned sentence is muffled by Sherlock's hand, which presses firmly against his mouth and causes his heart to pound.

"I believe that I will be the one who decides when John, not you," Sherlock hisses in his ear, lips brushing against the delicate skin of John's earlobe, and oh that makes his legs weak enough that he's glad he's pinned against the wall. "Lestrade will think that we've left the building and will act accordingly. He'll text me, then you, and when neither of us responds he'll go directly to Baker Street. It will take him at least an hour to make the round trip and since I doubt very much he'll figure out where we've gone on the first try..." The hand on his hip moves up, pushing away the hem of his shirt and sliding across the bare skin of his belly. John shivers and he can practically feel Sherlock smirking in response. "Just try to keep quiet and you'll be fine."

The hand across his mouth drops away and Sherlock steps even closer, fingers attacking John's belt buckle. He leans his forehead against the wall and lets Sherlock unbuckle his belt, then thumb his trousers open. Already he can feel himself hardening and a shallow gasp escapes when Sherlock palms his erection, massaging the head through the thin cotton of his underwear. Sherlock kisses the back of his neck and pushes both trousers and underwear down, letting them fall heedlessly on the floor. John feels dirty, standing there in the dark half-naked, his cock on display. Hot fingers wrap around his straining shaft and he exhales, clenching his hands into loose fists.

"Fuck, Sherlock," he says raggedly. The fingers on his cock are feather light, ghosting touches that make him yearn for more. He squirms, hips pumping in an effort to get friction, but Sherlock just chuckles infuriatingly and makes his hand a loose circle that barely provides any relief. 

"Not today, but I do have something like that in mind." Another kiss on the back of his neck, directly on the spot that makes him tremble with desire. Distantly John registers the sound of a cap being popped and then something cold presses between his arse cheeks, brushing gently against his entrance, testing his reaction. 

John stiffens. He can't help it. It's been a long time since anyone's done this and even though it's Sherlock he's not... he's just not sure. "Sherlock..." 

"Shh, John. If you don't want me to you need only say your safe word." The deep voice is oddly reassuring as Sherlock slowly presses his finger inside to the first knuckle. The intrusion feels strange and John tries to remember to relax, to push out and accept instead of fighting against it. It helps when Sherlock's hand tightens slowly around his cock and begins to stroke, the fingers gliding _just right_ , like Sherlock has memorized this perfectly just from having done it twice before, and god knows maybe he has. 

He bites down on his lip to keep from moaning out loud, remembering at the last second that they're in Scotland Yard and any loud noises will definitely be investigated. Even one finger makes him feel deliciously full, especially when Sherlock begins twisting it around, exploring, experimenting. The thought of being an experiment for Sherlock is a rush that makes him dizzy. It takes effort to remember how to breathe, especially when Sherlock slowly drags his finger out to the tip and then languidly pushes it back in. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. John gives a choked sob when Sherlock's hand leaves his cock and grips his right hip instead, and even the resulting white-hot flash of pleasure when Sherlock locates the erogenous zone on his hip doesn't help the loss. John lifts one of his hands from the wall and starts to reach down.

“No,” Sherlock says sharply and the movement of his finger stills. “Hands on the wall, John. You are not allowed to touch yourself, do you understand?”

“Yes,” John whispers when it becomes clear that Sherlock is waiting for an answer. He wriggles and pushes back, trying to impale himself against Sherlock’s finger, but the hold on his hip is too tight. “Please, Sherlock. I can’t...”

“Don’t take your hands off the wall,” Sherlock commands and he starts moving again, this time sliding a second finger in to join the first. It makes John shudder and gasp at the feeling of being overstretched for a few breathless seconds before the muscles begin to relax. Sherlock presses in all the way again and then pauses, like he needs a moment to think, and then he crooks his fingers up and ever so slightly to the right in a deliberate broad sweep.

John groans so loudly that he thinks it’ll be a miracle if no one hears. “Fuck,” he gasps out. “Christ, Sherlock, that’s...”

“Your prostate, yes.” Sherlock sounds smug and he does it again. Being Sherlock, of course he understands that direct pressure is too much, but a light fluttering touch directly overhead is – oh god – enough to make John feel like he’s right on the edge. Without conscious thought on his part his hand flies back down to his cock.

“John!” Sherlock snaps. “If you can’t behave I’m going to have to punish you.” His voice drops, becoming low and throaty and seductive, rumbling through John’s bones until he feels like it’s imprinted on his soul. “Or perhaps that’s what you want me to do. Would you like that, John? I could take you over my knee and spank you until you’re begging me to come. I’m sure we could find a cock ring that would fit you. Perhaps you’d enjoy it if I used my riding crop.” As he says this he bites John lightly on the back of the neck. 

“Jesus Christ.” John can’t think, not with those images filling his mind. They’re unbearably erotic and he can picture them in perfect detail, how it would feel to be bent over Sherlock’s knees, the sharp impact against his buttocks, the way his cock would be stimulated with each strike, and he knows how much he wants it. He squirms again and whimpers, the agonizingly light touches across his prostate enough to keep him perfectly balanced, not enough to send him over. He’s been wound up so many times today that he feels blinded by pleasure, unable to do anything except stand there and accepted what his lover is offering. He clenches his hands uselessly and drops his head, wanting to beg but knowing that the words won’t come.

“John,” Sherlock says, drawing his name out into a drawl, so that it sounds more like “Jaaaaawn”. The sound fills the room, seemingly stealing whatever air remains. “What do you want?”

“I want…” John struggles to think. He’s never come from just this before but he thinks Sherlock could be the first one to make it happen. “I want to… to come.”

Sherlock’s lips touch his ear, his jaw, then his cheek and finally his lips when John turns his head, desperate for a kiss. They kiss deeply for several seconds, broken only by the trembling in John’s limbs every time Sherlock touches him just right. Finally, Sherlock breaks the kiss with one last lick to John’s lips and breathes, “Then ask me.”

Ask. Really, Sherlock has this annoying thing of making things sound ridiculously simple when they’re really not. John lifts his head and takes a deep breath, willing the air into his lungs. He can feel Sherlock’s erection grinding against his hip and the long fingers stretching him wide open at the same time that fingers ghost tantalizingly slow over his erection. The surface of the wall is rough against his hands and Sherlock’s body is warm, his clothing a sinful reminder wherever he presses against John. He can taste the sweat that’s rolling down his face and the lingering remnants of Sherlock’s mouth. He can hear his own raspy breathing and Sherlock’s quieter panting, the slight squish of lube and the gasps he can’t hold in. The pleasure is travelling through his body in sharp little bursts, pooling in his stomach, threatening to become a wave that will swallow him whole. All of it seems magnified by the darkness.

“Sherlock,” he says, “Please, will you let me… let me… come.” It doesn’t come out as a question so much as a whimper but apparently it’s suitable because warm fingers wrap firmly around his cock, the heat shockingly unbearable, and begin to stroke firmly. Once, twice, three times - and then Sherlock _presses_ in just the right spot with both hands and John scrabbles at the wall, a cry roughly shaped into Sherlock’s name escaping him as he doubles over, spilling over Sherlock’s hand and painting the wall he’s still pinned against.

The hand gripping his cock releases it and grabs him round the waist, lowering him gently to his knees. Sherlock eases his fingers out and lightly strokes John’s side as John shivers through the aftershocks. He kisses John on the mouth and then lowers his head, sucking roughly at the spot on his neck that bears a fresh bruise. Even though it burns, John can’t help turning into it, wanting more, wanting Sherlock to mark him so everyone knows. He almost wishes he weren’t so spent so he could go for round two.

“Want me to…” He gropes for Sherlock’s cock but is stalled by slender fingers that catch his wrist.

“I’m good. We don’t have time for that,” says Sherlock. His eyes are a silvery blue glitter in the darkness. “It was enough for me to watch you, to feel you come apart underneath me. You are magnificent, John.”

John is irrationally glad for the dark because he knows he’s blushing. He clears his throat. “Maybe later?”

Sherlock smirks. “Count on it,” he says, and kisses John again.


	4. Chapter 4

Being back in 221b after the night they’ve had feels like a blessing. John wearily hangs his jacket up and watches as Sherlock ambles over to the sofa and flings himself down, stretching out like a cat with limbs splayed in every direction possible. Shaking his head indulgently, he heads into the kitchen and fills the kettle with water. He stares thoughtfully out the window while he waits for it to be ready. His body is still tingling with residual pleasure and he swears he can still feel Sherlock’s long fingers sliding into him, even though it’s been well over two hours since they emerged from the supply closet and were pounced on by an irate Lestrade.

After a couple of minutes the kettle beeps and he pours the water into two mugs, adds the tea, and then gets out the sugar and milk. Sherlock tends to like his tea with plenty of both and John adds them sparingly before carrying the mugs back into the other room. His approach to the sofa doesn’t stir a response from Sherlock, who seems to be doing his best to ignore John’s existence. John rolls his eyes and gives Sherlock a pointed nudge with his knee. Reluctantly Sherlock shifts over until there’s a space large enough for John to squeeze into. He settles down and sticks one of the mugs in front of Sherlock, holding it there until the fragrance entices Sherlock into taking it.

“We need to talk,” John says once they’ve both had a few calming sips.

Sherlock goes stiff all over. His eyes dart over to John and examine him quickly, no doubt trying to discern whether or not he’s done something wrong. John gives him a pleasant smile and purposely leans a good portion of his weight on Sherlock’s feet so that the man won’t try to make a run for it. If they’re doing this he’s not going to let Sherlock ignore it, ignore him, until something goes sour. He’s putting everything he has into Sherlock’s warm, clever hands and he’s not prepared to give that up anytime soon, which means they’re going to communicate regardless of whether Sherlock wants to or not.

Finally, Sherlock tilts his head back. “If you must.”

“ _We_ must,” John corrects. “You broke one of my rules.” He doesn’t know how else to say it but to be blunt. Sherlock doesn’t appreciate it when people try to dance around something; it tends to earn the ‘you’re wasting my time’ look that he’s perfected over the years. John doesn’t want to start out by irritating him even more than he already is.

“Your rules...” It only takes Sherlock a second to understand and when he does he withdraws further, curling his knees up against his chest as best he can while John’s still got a hold of his feet. He looks like a cornered animal ready to strike out or run.

“Yes. My rules.” He balances his mug on his knees and touches the neckline of his jumper, tugging at it gently until he knows that Sherlock can see the mark high on his throat. “I told you not to do anything visible outside of my clothing until we’d discussed it first. As I recall, you didn’t exactly ask my permission before pulling me into an alley and sucking this onto my neck.”

For a long moment Sherlock doesn’t say anything. John would be happy at having finally rendered the great consulting detective speechless if it weren’t for the visible signs of tension. Those pale eyes are wide and shadowed, the lips compressed into a thin line, spidery shoulders stiff. At last, he sets his mug down on the coffee table and says, “Then you’ll want to move out.”

“What?” It’s so the opposite of what John is thinking that for a moment he can only blink, dumbfounded.

“Come now, John,” Sherlock says impatiently, like _John_ is the one who isn’t making any sense. “If you can’t trust me to follow the rules you’ve set forth then I can’t be your dom. This is the sort of relationship you want between us so if you can’t have that then...” He gives a shrug of his shoulders, something that seems oddly out of place for a man like Sherlock. “We will try to go back to being friends but you will feel awkward. Eventually you’ll feel that to move on you’ll need space and then you’ll move out. We might as well avoid that. I see no reason why I should move out. I was here first.”

“Sherlock...” John isn’t sure whether he should laugh or cry. Honestly, he can’t believe he willingly puts himself into the hands of a man who can be completely stupid sometimes. “I’m not moving out and neither are you. We’re definitely not breaking up. And – ” He reaches out and catches one of Sherlock’s hands, running his thumb over the knuckles. “Even if _we_ decided that this style of relationship wasn’t working out it’s not the only reason I want to be with you. I love _you_ , you git, god knows why.”

Sherlock’s eyes go very, very wide and John nearly swallows his tongue when he realizes what he’s said. It’s come out without his permission but he knows it’s the truth. Even before they began this, Sherlock is and always has been the most important person in his life, since the day that they met. He takes a deep breath and lets it out in a slow sigh before smiling. Gently, he brings Sherlock’s hand to his lips and presses a kiss to the pale skin. He can feel the sharp inhalation Sherlock makes when John does it and he likes that, likes knowing that he can have just as much of an effect on Sherlock as Sherlock has on him.

“I love you,” John repeats gently, his lips brushing against the warm skin with every word. “And I’m not angry at you, Sherlock. I understand why you did it. You got carried away in the heat of the moment. For something so small I can easily forgive you, and I want to amend our rules to exclude bites on the neck.” He gives a crooked grin. “No one’s ever done that to me before and I certainly don’t want you to think you can’t do it again. It was bloody hot seeing you all possessive and wound up like that.”

“If you’re not angry then why did you want to talk about it?”

“Because we’re in a relationship,” John says with exaggerated patience. “That’s what you do when you have conflicts, especially when it comes to things like this. If I had wanted you to stop I could have easily said my safe word I believe that you would have if I had. But I didn’t.” He releases Sherlock’s feet, finally feeling confident that the man won’t try to make a run for it, and instead begins rubbing soothing circles on Sherlock’s ankle. “Sometimes, on very rare occasions, rules were made to be broken and I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you would find the one I’m willing to break.”

At last Sherlock smiles, just a very slight twitch of the lips, but it feels like a victory. His hand twists and curls around John’s, lacing their fingers together. He starts pulling, a light tug, until John gets the hint and carefully climbs forward until he’s comfortably settled between Sherlock’s thighs, his upper body cushioned against Sherlock’s chest, mug of tea abandoned on the floor. It’s the kind of position that he would normally resist because it’s a reminder of how short he is, but with Sherlock it’s different, it’s alright. He likes being surrounded by the man and if it reminds him of when Sherlock cuffed his hands and sat him down on his lap and brought him off, well, so much the better.

“Sherlock,” he mumbles, sounding almost sleepy, and kisses the man’s ridiculously long throat. “I meant it, you know. I love you.”

“John…”

“Shh. You don’t have to say it back to me.” He’s reasonably sure that Sherlock feels the same way, after all. Just like he knows that someday Sherlock will feel confident enough to say it. “I just wanted you to know.”

“I do,” Sherlock says quietly, his free hand stroking John’s hair. 

John curls into him a little more and lets out a quiet, content sigh. This probably won’t last long - Sherlock will get bored and then he’ll be off into another experiment or a case - but he’s going to enjoy it while it does. Besides, it gives him the chance to plan a little. Their position has also served to remind him that by his count the balance between them is a little off. He may enjoy being submissive in bed but he’s not selfish. The very next time that Sherlock complains he’s bored John is going to do something about it. He smirks to himself and closes his eyes, drifting off to very pleasant dreams of watching his lover come undone at his hands.


End file.
